


we're not that different (you and i)

by mindelan



Series: missing scenes [1]
Category: La Reina del Sur (TV), Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, domestic living, i guess lol??, we all know they're in love and will have a house of their own some day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindelan/pseuds/mindelan
Summary: During the two days Pote sleeps in Malta, James and Teresa are forced to share a living space after six months of being apart.post 3x02.





	we're not that different (you and i)

**Author's Note:**

> song title from "two evils" by bastille!
> 
> prompt: "hi there! if you are taking fic prompts, do you think you could write something about the two days James and Teresa spent alone in Malta waiting for Pote to wake up? Like them cooking and just talking, tying to figure out their boundaries and their plans? Or whatever you think happened <3 I really enjoyed your fic of them on the plane :) thank you!!"

Despite all of Teresa’s questions and the obscene amount of money they’re paying him, the doctor is out the door as soon as he’s done treating Pote. She suspects this is due to the way James hovers in the doorway, glaring murderously the entire time, and the gun that’s visible in the waistband of her jeans whenever she bends over to check his work. **  
**

The doctor had said that everything would heal properly except for his hand –– which might require surgery if he ever wants to regain the majority of his movement in the limb. It was clear that he was still breathing by the easy rise and fall of his chest, but Teresa can’t quite keep the tension from her body as she sits at his side, hands clasped and arms balanced on her knees, with her head hung low.

This is her fault. She should have been there for him. Instead, she’d been driving around the fucking city with James in the trunk of her fucking car.

“He’s going to be okay, you know,” James says, suddenly much closer to her than he’d been earlier, arms still crossed across his chest as he peers down at the both of them. Concern crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I’ve seen men recover from worse, and he’s strong.”

She picks up her head ever so slightly to meet his gaze, his tired eyes likely mirroring the dark smudges on her own face. When’s the last time either of them got a goodnight’s sleep? Even after she’d fucked the waiter at the nearby café, her dreams had been plagued by nightmares, of the faces of all the people she’s wronged in her short life.

She wonders, absently, if anything’s happened to him. She hopes he’s alive. He’d been a good lay, despite everything.

“I know,” she replies simply, voice hoarse. That’s what the doctor had said, anyway, and she has no reason not to believe him. . .but there are already seeds of doubt forming in her stomach and bile rises up in the back of her throat.

_She should have been there for him._

“Come on,” he says, reaching forward to put a hand on her shoulder, as if to steer her away from Pote’s body. “You’re not doing any good just sitting here.”

Teresa wrenches herself out of his grip, folding forward into herself. Any other time, she’d be sitting tall, confident, ready to take on whatever the world’s about to throw at her, but she doesn’t feel like herself right now. She doesn’t want to be strong, she wants to have a fucking pity party.

Is that so wrong?

“Don’t,” she growls, and James retreats with his hands up, moving backwards carefully as if she were a wild animal primed to attack. It’s only when he leaves the room that she allows herself to fully sag, down, down, down until her forehead is nearly touching the mattress in front of her.

Blindly, she reaches forward to grab Pote’s limp hand, and wonders why the hell she lets James see her like this. Vulnerable. Weak. He’s the enemy, and yet the thought of hiding all of this from him hadn’t even crossed her mind.

She closes her eyes against the tears and takes a long, shuddering breath in, and then breathes out.

 

“Here. You should eat.”

James places a plate of food down on the bed next to her, and stands a respectable distance away from her. She blinks up at him blearily, half-asleep with an angry crick in her neck from bending over.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and shifts his gaze. After a beat, he murmurs, “He’ll be okay. He’s strong.”

He leaves the room. She doesn’t reply. Pote doesn’t wake up.

 

There had been a time in her life when Teresa hadn’t had nightmares every night. She thinks it must have been before her parents were murdered in front of her, because even in Güero’s comfy mansion, she’d often wake up gasping and sweaty in the middle of the night, terrified of things she could barely remember once she’s awake.

The safe house they’re staying in is not one she often frequents, so when she finally frees herself from the clutches of her dream, it takes a few moments to reorient herself. She presses a shaky hand to her forehead, feeling the moisture that’s gathered there, and tries to calm herself.

_Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. In. . .out. . ._

Her heart races. Already, she can feel the memories of the nightmare slipping from her, but she knows it had been a bad one. Watching her loved ones die seems to be a common theme from her subconscious, and in the wake of Pote’s injury, it only made their “deaths” appear more real.

Then, of course, there had been the portion where she’d been forced to witness James’s death. Where she’d been forced to kill him herself. That’s new. She doesn’t think about what his sudden appearance in her dreams might mean, or what her subconscious is trying to tell her.

(That she cares about him?)

Teresa pushes herself up into a sitting position, blankets falling from around her shoulders and pooling in her lap. A quick glance at the clock tells her what she’d already suspected: it’s early –– too damn early to be awake –– but there’s also no point in trying to go back to sleep when she knows nothing will come of it. It always takes her a while after a nightmare anyway, so it’s not worth it.

The next thing she notices is that the gun that usually sits on her nightstand is gone.

Immediately, she scrambles upwards and out of bed, ears straining for the sound of intruders. She knows Pote is still asleep in the next room over, and she’d assumed that James had gone to sleep a couple hours ago, but she isn’t sure ––

_Focus._

Other than the handgun, there aren’t any other weapons in her room. But there had been a time in her life when she hadn’t had access to the things she does now, and sometimes, a lamp works just as effectively.

As she unplugs it from the wall, she sorts through the facts. As far as she knows, this safehouse is completely off anyone’s radar. It’s possible that someone could have stumbled upon it and broken it, but she doubts that’s the case.

The doctor had told them that it might take Pote a while to wake up, and if he’s awake, she doesn’t think he’s strong enough to teach her a lesson about self-defense like he had when they were with Camila. But that doesn’t seem right.

And since she knows she hasn’t misplaced the gun, that leaves only one likely possibility.

James. That two-timing, son of a bitch.

A quick check on Pote shows that he’s still asleep in his bed, and James is nowhere to be found. If he wants them dead, they would have been shot already, so he must have grabbed her gun and anything else he could find before ditching them in the middle of the night.

She supposes this is what she gets for forcing him to zip tie his wrists and then shoving him in the truck of her car. She should have expected a betrayal, she knows, but she had hoped that their tentative “friendship” would have lasted a bit longer than this.

As soon as she walks into the living room, the front door opens slowly, tentatively, and James steps into the room. Immediately, she raises her lamp and gets ready to bash him over the head with it, even if she’s confused as to why he came back.

(She tells herself that her heart is beating so fast because of the adrenaline. That’s all. That’s the only damn reason.)

“Whoa, whoa!” he exclaims as soon as he sees her, eyes wide, hands flying up in a defensive position. “What the hell, Teresa?”

She narrows her eyes. “Give me your gun. Now.”

He does as she says, but the bewildered look doesn’t leave his face even as he hands it over. “I was going to put it back,” he shoots back, voice defensive. “I only had it for a few minutes.”

She hadn’t even heard him come into her room and take it, which makes her face heat up. How long had he been in there while she’d been asleep?

“I gave you a gun,” she snaps in return, setting the lamp on the table and pointing the weapon in his direction, finger on the trigger, safety off. Despite the nightmare she’d had literally minutes earlier, her hand doesn’t shake, even when she’s faced with recreating it. “I _trusted_ you, James.”

Well –– sort of.

“And I didn’t do anything to break that!” comes his replies, swift and quick on the heels of her own statement. “I needed something that had more than one bullet, so I borrowed yours. I was just checking the perimeter, and I didn’t bother asking because I thought you were asleep. Okay?”

 _Fuck._ It makes sense. And after the day that she’s had, that they’ve all had, it hadn’t even occurred to her. It’s common practice, too, especially on the run. She can recall countless sleepless nights spent in safe houses alone with him, switching off every couple of hours to run surveillance.

It’s entirely possible that he’s telling the truth, and she almost lowers her gun immediately –– but she knows better, knows who he is and how he’s lied to her, so she instead choose to shake her head. “I don’t believe you.”

He laughs incredulously, running his hand through his hair and turning away from her. “Teresa –– “

“Hands where I can see them.”

He shifts, doing exactly as she says, though she can see a glint of resistance in his eyes. Whether or not he’s telling the truth, it’s apparent that he’s only just putting up with this. Why? She doesn’t know.

(Maybe he’s only humoring her because he likes her. That thought comes almost immediately to the forefront of her mind, but she pushes it away quickly. He’s betrayed her –– she shouldn’t be feeling this way about him.)

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he grits out, frustrated. “You have a ten million dollar bounty on your head, Teresa! It was clear to me that you weren’t going to do anything, so I thought I’d do it for you. Don’t be stupid and just _think!”_

As much as she hates to admit it (even to herself), he’s right. She’s been careless the past couple hours, worrying about Pote until she’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion. James had tried to tell her to go to sleep multiple times, but naturally, she hadn’t listened.

She shakes her head, not listening to him. “I don’t believe you,” she repeats. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“To see if you’ve made any calls.”

He does what she says, pulling it out of his back pocket with one hand, but protests the action. “I already told you, I’m not working with Camila anymore. You’re not going to find anything.”

He’s right –– she doesn’t. There’s no outgoing calls or voicemails left behind. His text messages aren’t anything to be worried about; the last ones he sent to Camila were months ago. It doesn’t completely erase any guilt he may or may not have, but it does ease her mind.

There’s always the possibility he met with someone or made a call on a burner. She doesn’t know how long he’s been gone, but she wants to believe him, wants to believe that he’s really working with her, wants to believe that there’s a part of him that cares for her (because God knows there’s a part of her that cares for him).

She wants to trust him, but the circumstances of his sudden arrival are very suspicious. It’s likely that he’s working with someone to take down her empire, or is doing it himself, but she has decided to do this differently.

Camila would have killed anyone who even thought of betraying her. Teresa is not Camila.

She tosses his phone back to him and flicks the safety back on the gun before shoving it into the waistband of her pajama pants. She suddenly feels very, very heavy.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She shifts her weight onto her other foot, then adds, “Don’t go behind my back again.”

He scoffs, looking at her incredulously. “And let you get yourself killed?”

“You heard me,” she shoots back, already turning away from him and heading back down the hallway to her room. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She knows he’ll be here.

 

He is.

 

It’s around noon when Teresa ventures out to find him again. She’d managed to get a couple more hours of sleep before checking in on Pote again. There’s been no changes in his condition, and at this point, they’re just waiting for him to wake up to really understand the extent of the damage.

She shuffles into the kitchen, tying her hair up into a ponytail as she does, grabs a protein bar, then heads out onto the balcony to stand next to him.

“Morning,” James says, leaned up against the railing and taking a sip from the bottle in his hand. It’s only now that she sees the label, and she frowns in disgust. He notices, and laughs, offering the bottle to her. “Want some?”

“Isn’t it too early for beer?” she asks, but takes it from him anyway, throwing back a swig. The cheap, warm liquor barely burns on its way down, but it does take the edge off of the past couple hours.

He shrugs, taking it back from her with a lopsided smile. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, isn’t it? That’s the rule.”

They stand in silence for a couple minutes, content to share a mostly empty bottle of beer and watch the city below them. It’s only when he finishes the drink does he say, “So you’ve decided not to shoot me.”

She purses her lips. “I’m not Camila.”

“You’re different.”

“I’m trying to be,” she replies, turning away from the city below them to focus her attention on him, noting the dark circles underneath his eyes that prove that he’s been sleeping as little as she has. “But that doesn’t mean you can go and do _pendejo_ shit like that again.”

“With the welcome you gave me last time, I’ll make sure to ask you first.” Teresa notes the way he speaks. It almost sounds as if he plans on sticking around, despite what he’s gone through so far at her side. She finds that she doesn’t hate that idea, seeing more of him, especially after a six months absence.

But even though she feels friendly toward him now, that doesn’t excuse what he’s done in the past. Choosing to shoot at her instead of joining forces and coming out of nowhere to rescue her are only two reasons as to why Teresa cannot find it in herself to trust him fully.

She just needs to be careful. And to do so, then she needs to know his intentions –– even if he lies in telling her them.

Making sure she has a good look at his face for his answers, she asks bluntly, “You planning on sticking around?”

“I’d like to,” James admits, leaning forward on the railing, making a diagonal of his body. Unlike her, he only turns his head to look in her direction. Despite that, the rest of his expression seems open, honest. She tilts her head, trying to gauge his sincerity. “If the offer still stands.”

If only he’d told her this before she’d fled America. The two of them are a good team, and work well together. She would have gladly allowed him a spot at her side back then.

Now? Now she’s not sure.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, pushing up off the railing and turning toward the house. It’s getting hot, and the protein bar sits forgotten in her pocket. “A lot has happened since you’ve come here.”

They both know she’s referring to Pote and the injuries he’s sustained at the hands of their enemies (because of her), so she doesn’t have to say it. But he’s the one who actually broach the topic, commenting dryly, “You two are close.”

It’s simply an observation, but it makes her bristle. What’s that supposed to mean? Of course they’re close. He’s the only damn person she can trust to watch her nowadays.

She pauses in her stride, hovering close to the door. “We are.”

“What about Güero?”

Güero hadn’t made it out to Europe with them. In the weeks that followed her escape, she’d tried to contact him in every possible way she could think, but she had found nothing. No reports of his imprisonment or death, no texts or phone calls or messages from him, nothing. It’s like he’s disappeared off of the face of the Earth, and she hasn’t heard from him since.

But that’s what he’s good at, she supposes. Going off to do God only knows what and leaving her behind, even though he claims to love her.

She knows better. Maybe he had loved her once, but he doesn’t love the woman that she’s become.

“It’s just the two of us,” she replies slowly, not looking at him. After a beat of silence between both of them, with only the sound of the city below them, she adds before going back into the house, “I’ll talk to you later, James.”

He lets her go.

 

“Making dinner?”

It’s a couple hours later when James’s voice startles her out of the fog she’s found herself in. “Yes,” she replies, looking up briefly to meet his gaze, offering him a small smile which he returns. “Hope you like pasta.”

It’s popular here in Malta, and easy enough to make and prepare. They have bags of it in the pantry, considering how well it stores. Since Pote usually does most of the cooking when they’re together, Teresa’s not used to it, but whatever she makes is usually edible and sometimes tastes decent.

“Pasta’s fine,” he chuckles, then goes silent for a beat, choosing to watch her. She doesn’t let it show that his scrutiny unnerves her, choosing to stir the pot quietly until he asks, “You want help?”

She pauses in her work, looking up at him, and he just shrugs. “You can chop the vegetables,” she replies, then, pointing to the pile at her left with her spoon.

“Sure.”

They work in silence, but the quiet between them doesn’t bother her, not anymore.

 

Another night, another nightmare. This one, at least, lets her go easier than the one the previous night had.

At quick glance shows that her gun is still on the nightstand where she left it, even though she’d doubted it would be gone after the events that transpired yesterday.

She hasn’t bothered to put the lamp back in her room either, so the only lighting currently illuminating the space is from her clock, which gives off an eerie green glow. It’s not too early where she would consider staying up, and she needs the sleep anyway. The longer they stay in Malta, the harder it’s going to be to leave. She’s decided that even if Pote hasn’t woken up by tomorrow evening, they were leaving anyway.

Blearily, she rubs at her forehead and wipes her eyes with the back of a hand, sighing heavily before rolling back over onto her side and trying to get some more sleep.

Just as she’s about to succumb to her exhaustion, she hears footsteps in the hallway, but doesn’t bother to get up. She knows who it is, knows that she’s not the only one in this house who has trouble sleeping, and after the conversations they’ve had in the past day, she doesn’t think he’ll be stupid enough to do anything for a second night in a row.

Based on past experiences, she knows he prefers to be by himself in these moments. She recalls one time where she’d tried to wake him and he’d lashed out, thinking that she’d been an attacker. After that, she hasn’t bothered to try again, but anytime they both end up being kept awake by dreams, she’ll offer him a knowing glance or a small smile to say that yes, they’re both wrecks.

It’s comforting.

As soon as Teresa hears him in the hallway, she pushes herself up and out of bed despite being close to falling asleep. She opens the door to her room and peeks out into the hallway, squinting so her eyes get adjusted to the dim lighting.

James stops his pacing, turning to face her. Concern is written all over his face, his eyes looking slightly panicked. “You all right, Teresa?”

“I should be asking you that.”

He chuckles at that, running his hands through his hair. She takes a moment to appreciate how the movement tugs at his muscles, very clear in the tight tank top he’s wearing. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replies. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” she tells him. “I was awake.” The only times she isn’t are when she passes out from exhaustion. The next time that happens will be in a day or two.

“I’m going to go smoke. You want a cigarette?”

She shakes her head. “Try to get some sleep,” she says as she ducks out of the hallway and back into her room. “I need you well-rested tomorrow.”

Just as she closes the door, she catches a glimpse of his smirk. “Yes, ma’am.” 

It takes her a long time to fall asleep, due to reasons that don’t at all relate to her nightmare.

 

They eat breakfast together in the morning. She doesn’t think too much about it.

 

Pote wakes up sometime around noon the next day, and when questioned, Teresa tells him that she trusts James, that he’s with them now.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows it’s the truth. She trusts him.

 _Fuck._ She knows she’s already in too deep as soon as the thought passes through her mind. She trusts him

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @[jynirso](https://jynirso.tumblr.com)! feel free to send me prompts/come talk to me about the show!


End file.
